Being a compendium of what Glenn Ingersoll is thinking and reading and you know whatever.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Seven

The angel’s hands spread fans, blossom full of colors, squeeze down into green stones. A left courts a right with dainty flutters. The right, bashful, dips and hides. Another left pursues a right with hungry fury, catching and gnawing on the frightened wrist. Three rights layer one upon the next, the bottom’s slightest twitch telegraphing up the stack. The head that has swallowed all the other heads now opens to receive an eight-toed food, leg follows up to the knee where the jaws clack shut. The head resumes its slow revolution, the eating face giving way to one dropping tears.